


step in the nest of snakes with me (and maybe we’ll be alright)

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: A Darker Kind of Modern AU, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Actually everyone prepare for angst because this will NOT be a happy one, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I’m pretty sure the entirety of the cast of ASOIAF will appear here, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Throbb shippers prepare for angst because this will NOT be a happy one, a lot of mucking around with canon plot lines and timelines, all relationship tags removed except for the ones i actually got to, i would say im sorry but honestly im really not, there is not a SINGLE cisheterosexual character in here and THAT is the way i am keeping it, will be eternally unfinished due to lack of motivation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24294250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A Modern!AU of A Song of Ice and Fire where everything is (nearly) as dark as the books.update: rating has upped to m
Relationships: Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 26
Kudos: 19





	1. Theon Greyjoy

**Author's Note:**

> jon arryn dies. Theon and Robb get into an argument. 
> 
> (not all characters tagged appear in this chapter, but they all will appear in this fic eventually!)

Theon Greyjoy is decidedly _not_ a Stark. 

It is becoming a bit difficult to continue to insist, as he does, that he is a Greyjoy, and not a Stark, but Theon continues, even though in the corner of his eye, he can always see the lot who hang out with the _real_ Ironborn—not Theon and his Northeners—laughing at him. 

Theon takes a drag from his cigarette and flicks it to the weathered boards of the porch. A late-summer evening surrounds him, the sky tinted purple and orange, the amount of sunlight negligible. 

In the distance somewhere, he can hear the sounds of a party, whoops and cheers and screams. Perhaps the Ironborn are there, raiding the supplies, taking salt women for the night. A small smile comes to Theon’s face as he thinks of it, and more than anything, he wishes he was still with them, instead of on Ned Stark’s porch, smoking cigarettes bought with coins stolen from Ned’s wallet and wearing clothes bought with Ned Stark’s money. 

“Theon,” Robb Stark, Ned’s eldest, walks onto the porch, his bare feet landing heavily on the boards. “Jon Arryn’s dead. We got the news an hour ago. We’re going to have to travel to his funeral.”

“So? I’m not a Stark. I shouldn’t have to go along to one of Ned’s old friends’s funerals.”

“Yes, but it’s _Jon Arryn_ , Dad was practically _raised_ by him. We’re all going to go, ‘cause it’s really important to him.” 

“Robb,” Theon’s tone is cutting. “I couldn’t give less of a shit about this _Jon Arryn_ guy.” 

Robb sighs. “Are you still annoyed that we won’t let you live on your own? Because I can guarantee, if we did, firstly, we’d miss you, and secondly, you’d just go back to hanging out with the wrong crowd, and we don’t want that to happen.”

Theon laughs darkly. “Are you _actually_ kidding me? None of you Starks would miss me. You’re too absorbed with yourselves to miss me.”

Robb is quiet for a moment, and the haze of darkness settles over them as they look out over the Starks’ backyard. Finally, he says “Fine, _I’d_ miss you.” 

“You’d miss these specific personality traits that I created directly to please you. That hardly counts as _missing_ someone.”

“Theon—” Robb says, then takes a deep breath. “Could you please be at least a little bit nicer? Just this one time?”

“See, you already hate me. I’m not nice, Robb: I belong with the bad boys. The Ironborn. My family.”

“Balon Greyjoy was a shitty parent and your family was just as shitty!” Robb spits out, eyes flashing. “Dad told me all about it. Your brothers, they used to beat you up, he said, and your father was just as bad—”

“Excuses for him to take me away from my rightful home.” Theon says, dismissive. He stubs out the end of his cigarette on an ashtray and drops it onto the porch, crushing it under his sneaker sole. 

“Oh, gods, Theon that’s bloody _enough_ —”

“What’s going on?” Rickon pokes a curious face through the curtains and sliding door. “Robbie, why are you and Theon shouting? And Robbie, why were you using bad words?” Confusion is evident in Rickon’s scrunched-up face. 

Theon turns to Robb and raises his eyebrows. _Robbie? Seriously?_

Robb frowns at him and turns to Rickon. “Theon’s saying some bad things, so I’m trying to get him to not say those bad things.”

“But _you’re_ saying bad words,” Rickon points out. 

Robb sighs. “Look, Rickon, I don’t have the patience for this at the moment. Go play with Arya or Bran, OK?”

Rickon nods in response. “Okay. But you will tell me what’s going on, right?”

“Sure,” Robb smiles reassuringly, “just not at the minute.”

Theon turns to Robb and snorts derisively. “You fucking liar.” 

“What? I’m just trying to make it easier on Rickon. A family friend just _died_ , for goodness’ sake.”

Theon sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. “You sound so _British_ saying that.”

“The Starks are _Scottish_ , thank you very much,” Robb corrects curtly. “And you’re evading the issue.” 

“Which is?”

Robb’s answering sigh comes accompanied by a groan. “You know what, Theon? I don’t care. I won’t miss you if you leave.” 

Theon’s smile as Robb storms away is wry. “One day you’ll reconsider that.”

Left in quiet, Theon takes a final drag on his cigarette, exhales tiredly, and lets it drop to the boards, along with the others he’s smoked tonight. 

In the distance somewhere, there is the tang of salty sweat and the joyous, half-maddened laughs of the Ironborn. 


	2. Arianne Martell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Down to Dorne... 
> 
> Updates for this will be biweekly!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what... *pulls Arianne Martell out of pocket* IT’S ARIANNE MARTELL!
> 
> note on tags for this: i can already tell the tags will be a monster, so i shall add them as i go along! please let me know if i’ve missed any!
> 
> and another note: this is not just about the starks, though they will feature prominently! this is a whole-ass asoiaf modern au

The sun has not yet risen, but Arianne Martell is awake. Her dark eyes look through the window of her flat, skimming the brightly-lit city below. Neon lights and the glow of headlights flash into her retinas, the dark light making them stand out more. 

A slight hint of sunrise is on the horizon, ripples of orange peeking through the layers of dark sky. Barely any light reaches Arianne where she stands, however.

She has a sheaf of papers in one hand, delivered earlier in the night by a postal courier with the voice of Tyene Sand. The dim light does not allow her to make out the words properly, but Arianne strains her eyes to see nonetheless. 

The first words resolve themselves into _Dearest Arianne,_ and Arianne finds herself sighing. Only one person it could be from, then, and Arianne really wishes he would stop sending her letters at inappropriately early hours of the day.

She lifts the paper so that a little bit of light catches on it in order to read the second line, which is some inane bullshit about the letter finding her safe and sound. Arianne snorts at the idea—since when has she even _pretended_ to be safe and sound? 

She skips to the second paragraph, which is only marginally less condescending and patronising than the first. Still, there are a few important things inbetween his sweet-and-innocent-as-daisies words. 

Third paragraph is where he actually starts saying things clearly. It’s unfortunately, however, rather typical of him to write everything of note in the third paragraph of the letter, a habit which he’s never broken in all the years Arianne’s known him. 

She scribbles a couple of things down on a pad of paper that came for free with the apartment, her eyes roving over the letter instead of paying much attention to what she’s writing. When she reaches the end of the letter and reads the last line, she rends the paper in half. 

She works away at the two pieces, tearing the letter away until it’s reduced to clusters of paper floating to land on her carpeting. Not for the first time, she finds herself wishing for an actual shredder to use for these sorts of things, but she knows that her money is tight, even considering her parentage, and a shredder is an investment she doesn’t have the cash (or time or patience) for. 

The letter ripped into shreds, Arianne tears off the first sheet of paper on the pad and goes to her closet, pulling out the leather jacket and storing the paper in the pocket hidden in the lining. She then pulls off the next three pieces on the pad and rips those up as well. Arianne may not live safely, but by the Gods she is going to be safe about this. 

She picks up her phone, distantly noting that the time is four-thirty-six a.m., and types in a number she knows off by heart. 

He picks up on the third ring. 

“Hello?” Oberyn Martell says into the phone, and Arianne resists the temptation to drop the phone, and him, onto its face, or burst out into joyous tears. Most days she wants to do both. 

“What the fuck is he thinking? It’s preposterous.” They both know who _he_ is—Tyene Sand delivered the letter, and anything that goes through the Sand Snakes has definitely been under the eye of their collective father. 

“He is looking like quite the fool, isn’t he? But I think I see the ingenious of this idea.”

“Explain precisely how he thinks it is ingenious to—” 

“I don’t pretend to know why he does everything he does, but this is definitely one of those plans where I can see some of his reasoning. You see, well—” 

“You keep saying I’ll see, Uncle, and you’re getting patronising. Don’t forget that I’m just as smart as you are.” 

“Yes, yes, but you have to understand—”

“You’re a man, Uncle. It’s easy for you to say that I have to understand.” She says it in such a tone that Oberyn Martell, on the other end of the line, is probably quaking in fear. 

“Well. Just consider it, okay? And remember to erase the memory of this from your phone.” While other uncles might sign off with goodbye, Oberyn Martell signs off with _erase the memory of this from your phone_. 

Arianne sighs, and deletes the evidence of the call. 

Since she has no plans to go back to sleep, she finds herself browsing the celebrity news networks with one eyebrow raised. There’s something about Robert Baratheon’s paramours that she skims through, her gaze catching on a woman with brown hair and blue eyes, an opinion piece on the ethics of Lannister Corp., and a couple of articles on the death of Jon Arryn. She finds little to nothing on the Martells and the Sand Snakes, which is a cause for celebration—especially given how many articles there are that promise to ‘dive deep’ into the ethics of many major family-owned corporations. Finally, just as she’s about to close her phone, she finds something on the Stark family. 

Arianne has always found herself strangely awed by the Starks. They live far up north and well away from any paparazzi cameras flashing in their face, which Arianne is only remotely jealous of, and rarely do anything publicly. The photo in the article is dated for seven years ago.

She looks through the article with interest initially, but sighs as she realises it’s just another pointless celebrity-gossip one. Closing the article, she returns her gaze to the horizon, where the sun already starts to look stronger in the beginnings of the dawn light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed leave a kudos and/or comment... it has the bonus effect of getting me to type the next chapter in double time, as you can probably tell from how fast i got this one out!


	3. Lysa Arryn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when i said updates would be biweekly?
> 
> so that was a fucking lie...

Jon Arryn’s body lies in front of Lysa, his eyes covered with two golden dragons, his hands folded together across his chest. She touches them gently, unable to stop herself. The veins that stand out under his age-spotted skin have gone blue-black with the lack of blood movement, and his hands look like something from one of Robert’s nightmares. 

Thinking of Robert, she chews her lip with concern for him. She wonders if the nanny has remembered to give him milk. She wonders if he has his teddy clutched in his small, shaking hands. 

_No, Lysa_ , she chides herself. She is here to look at her husband one last time, before he goes under a black lid. She is here to mourn what little happy memories she has of Jon Arryn.

There are a few, naturally—Jon Arryn had been a decent man, a caring husband, nothing like what some women’s husbands could be like. And as far as she knew, he had never cheated on her, which was better than she could say for his friend, Robert Baratheon. Jon was a good man, if not the one she wanted. And now his corpse lies before her, the shroud and coffin to a corner, ready for his body come Thursday.

Lysa despises the idea of having to invite anyone at all to Jon’s funeral: she would prefer to stay, protected, in the Vale, and keep Jon’s killers away. That Lannister woman killed him, she is certain, and she will be coming with Robert Baratheon, who just happened to be her _husband_ , of all people. 

She sighs heavily. Too much weighs on her head, and too little ideas for solutions present themselves. If she could, she would go crawl under her warm sheets and pull them over her head to block out the world and try to sleep, but every day now, Lysa is learning that she cannot block out the danger. She can only pretend she does not see it, and stay still and inconspicuous, in order that they do not pick up on her. 

Her eyes fall upon Jon Arryn’s body again. To outside eyes, he looks to have died a natural death: he was old, after all, years older than Lysa, and men younger than him have been struck down in the night. But Lysa knows otherwise. 

She looks at his cold, golden stare, and takes a deep breath, the begins to say all the things that she never could in life. 

Jon Arryn is dead, after all, and there is nobody around but the waiting coffin and shroud. Not even her beloved Petyr’s spy-devices would be in the Vale; no, she was always far too canny about this for him. So her secrets, as they spill out of her mouth, are safe.

“I never loved you, Jon,” she says, tears settling into the lines on her face, “not like I loved Petyr. But I tried, Jon, I really did. I wanted to love you, don’t you see? And how did you end up paying me back? You were— _cold_ , so cold—” 

Lysa inhales a deep breath. “And I never saw you, you were always off doing something for your dearest _Robert—_ not the Robert you should have been with, no. I named Robert after him, you know, thinking maybe you’d pay attention to him more then. But you didn’t—you left me all _alone_ and now you’ve left me all alone again.” 

She hurriedly wipes her face with the long sleeve of her cardigan and shuts up as soon as she hears a faint suggestion of shoes on wooden floor. She can’t do anything about the redness still around her eyes, but if it’s the nanny, she’ll probably just assume that Lysa has been crying for her husband—which she has been, in a way.

The person who enters the room is not the nanny, though, and Lysa’s eyes widen.

“ _Petyr_? What are you doing here?” Her voice is high and squeaky, entirely fearful—which it shouldn’t be, because this is _Petyr_ —

“Lysa, my dear, there’s no need to be alarmed.” So smooth, he was always so smooth, even when his body was a tangle of long limbs and a thin frame. 

“Yes, of course not—” she starts, then breaks off abruptly. “But what are you doing here? The Eyrie is _impenetrable_ —” 

“Never fear, Lysa darling, only I know about my way into the Eyrie, and I won’t give it away, not when you’re so... _important_ to me.” A hand caresses her cheek, and she finds herself leaning into it, briefly thinking of how long it’s been since she was touched in this way.

“Okay,” she says, her mind more on the hand on her cheek than what Petyr is saying. 

“Poor Jon,” Petyr says abruptly, removing his hand from her cheek and clasping it with his other one. He moves to get a better view of the body. “Still, he’ll miss the worst parts of what is to come... I suppose that’s a comfort.”

“What do you mean, what’s to come?” Without the contact of Petyr’s skin against hers, her voice has become shrill. 

“Oh, Lysa, you did the right thing, shutting yourself up,” Petyr replies, his eyes contemplating the body on the table. “More should be doing exactly what you are doing—but more fool them, I suppose.” His smile is a sharp slash across his face. 

“You want me to do something, don’t you,” she says, desperately. “I’ll do it. Just leave Robert and the Eyrie out of whatever you’re planning.”

“Why would I ever dream of hurting you?” Petyr says softly, turning his body towards hers. His hand finds the back of her neck, and she lets him put it there, closing her eyes into the touch. 

“As it is, however—” his words are breath on her face—“I do need you to do something.”

“Anything,” she whispers.

“Invite Balon Greyjoy and his daughter Asha to the funeral.”

“But I _hate_ Balon Greyjoy,” she whines. “He stinks of fish.” 

“Lysa...” That caress again. “You said you’d do anything.”

“I’ll invite them,” she says, her eyes dropping to the floor, chastised. 

“That’s my Lysa,” Petyr whispers, and then he leans in and presses his mouth to hers. 

He’s still a sloppy kisser, just as he was the first time, but Lysa still finds it charming. Her hands come up to cup his face, just before he pulls away. 

“I’ll see you at the funeral, my dear.” he says, before turning sharply on his heel and walking out the door. 

Lysa finds herself smiling. She lets herself fall into dizzy fantasies, but then she remembers what Petyr said she had to do.

It is not particularly difficult to write an email to Balon Greyjoy asking that he and his daughter come to the funeral: she has written many of these since Jon Arryn’s death. Only after clicking Send does she start to wonder at why Peter wanted to invite them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> usual spiel here, if you enjoyed or have constructive criticism leave a kudos/comment, blah blah blah 
> 
> (no seriously they increase my will to write this 1000% so it’s really in your best interests to)


	4. Daenerys Targaryen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Targaryen & her brother the asshole being an asshole again. 
> 
> TW: abuse because it’s Viserys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who’s updating again! 
> 
> I’ll probably keep the 3+ times per week schedule up until the end of quarantine in my country (when there IS one), and then this will probably start updating on weekends.

Daenerys’s brother’s arm curls around her shoulders possessively, and she tries not to recoil. She forces her face to stay vapid and smiling as Viserys talks about how wonderful her womanly charms are, and doesn’t show how the harshness of his fingers digging into her arm hurts. Years of living with Viserys, slipping in and out of homelessness, have taught her to shut up and cry quietly over the bruises he leaves. 

Khal Drogo’s expression is still unchanged, even as Viserys talks more and more about improbable talents that Dany certainly does not possess. His lips underneath his moustache are dark and scowling, as they always are. 

Dany finds herself both reviled and fascinated by him. The tattoos covering his body and the length of his smooth, oiled hair speak of pain and killings in dark alleys, but she thinks that she sees a softness in his eyes as he looks at her. 

Viserys finishes up his spiel, and then narrows his eyes at Khal Drogo, a challenge even though he is so clearly out of his depth. 

After several moments of Viserys’s affected stare, Khal Drogo laughs, a full-bellied and strong sound. Viserys’s fingers dig into her arm further as he spits “Do you dare to laugh at a king?” 

“Pardon him, Khal, please, he does not know what he is saying, he is out of his mind—” Illyrio is stammering, fear etched into the lines on his face. Dany watches, fascinated, as all the power in the room leaves Viserys and flows into Drogo. 

Khal Drogo’s laugh finishes, and he smiles meanly as he looks at Viserys and Illyrio. They look like unfortunate rabbits caught in the metaphorical headlights of his expression. 

He says something in a foreign tongue which Dany can’t decipher, but Illyrio apparently can, as he smiles relievedly. 

“Khal Drogo says that he accepts,” Illyrio says in his silly little voice, which Dany despises. 

Viserys’s smile is the slash of a knife across his face. “He can bloody well take the bitch, then. But the dragon wants his crown for her, and he’d bloody well get it. Or else,” he finishes, only vaguely menacingly. 

Dany begins to shiver. She hadn’t considered how the moment would play out, always assuming that Khal Drogo would reject her, leaving her and Viserys to continue their dependence on Illyrio. But no—apparently she is good enough for Khal Drogo to want her. 

The thought sends herself to stare down at her body, overly visible in a thin pink gown. Silk clings unflatteringly to her stomach, and against her soft sides (perfect for Viserys’s fingers to bruise as he drags her in front of yet another possible _benefactor_ ). She doesn’t know the exact name, but it’s probably a cheap high street ripoff of some supposedly high-fashion design. 

Viserys snaps at her to go to Khal Drogo, and, chastened, she does, only daring to look at him through her lashes. Up close, he smells of leather and sweat and danger, so different from Viserys that she can’t stop inhaling it, just to convince herself that it’s happening, she’s finally getting rid of Viserys’s presence in her life.

Illyrio clears his throat, a silly gesture for whom Dany thinks a silly little man, and says, “My dear Daenerys, who I love like a daughter—” 

_Love_ , she thinks, _no, you don’t love me, you just love the idea of my brother and you love the idea of more money_. She doesn’t voice her thoughts: Viserys has taught her that rarely, if ever, is her voice welcomed, so she stays mute. 

“I and your brother have brought you gifts to aid in your transition into your new life!” Illyrio smiles toothily. He waves a hand and, on cue, three girls walk forwards, having been hidden somewhere in the background. 

Dany’s breath leaves her throat. She’d thought that Khal Drogo had been attractive, but these girls are something else. 

“Doreah,” Illyrio gestures at a blonde girl whose mouth looks red and inviting, but whose eyes are the scared eyes of a hunted animal. “She shall teach you the womanly arts of love. She is talented, oh, yes, very talented, we can both say, definitely.”

Dany is filled with a flash of pity for the girl. It is clear that she has suffered, just as Dany has, and Dany recognises a kindred spirit when she sees one. She smiles and reaches for Doreah’s hand.

“Thank you,” she says, the smile on her face easy and innocent. Illyrio’s lips curl at her expression, though whether knowingly or ignorantly is another matter. 

“And this is Irri,” Illyrio continues, gesturing to a beautiful girl who looks similar to Drogo. “She will teach you how to be a Dothraki, in all the important ways.” 

Dany’s eyes widen at Irri’s knowing smile, and she takes in the leather jacket that the girl wears, the long braid of extensions sweeping down her back. 

Dany recognises her as another of the Dothraki, given the looks and the braid. She gives another sweet smile. 

“Thank you,” she says, as Irri walks to stand by her side. 

Illyrio gestures for the third girl. “This is Jhiqui, and she will teach you the Dothraki language.” He says, toothy smile back on his face. 

Jhiqui looks like another Dothraki, what with the braid and dark clothes, but her face is set in a scowl. Dany finds herself studying Jhiqui carefully as she says “Thank you, Illyrio.”

He smiles. “It is only what I could do, my dear.” 

Viserys frowns. “Thank me, too, sweet sister.” 

She bows her head bashfully. “Thank you, Viserys.” 

Illyrio smiles, and it oozes sickly sweetness as he says, “I have another gift for you, my dear.”

Dany’s eyebrows raise as she sees Jorah Mormont carrying a large, decorated box. “What is it?”

“It is none other than—” Illyrio smiles broadly before saying, voice husky, “ _dragon eggs_.” 

Dany’s eyes widen with shock. “How?” she blurts out. 

“A friend of mine in another of the Free Cities.” Illyrio’s smile is knowing. 

The Free Cities—a pseudonym for places so criminal that it was joked that every law was illegal there. Dany has grown up in most of them, shifting from one to the other, and yet—

Yet she never saw anything like this growing up. She realises that these eggs must be precious, treasured, if not even the children of the once-mighty Aegon Targaryen were allowed to see them. 

She also realises, with a sickening sense of perspective, that the eggs have belonged to her and Viserys all along. Stories were still told about a Targaryen crime lord who lost three dragon eggs in the once-Free City of Valyria. Three dragon eggs lay before her now. What was the likelihood of finding even one other dragon egg that wasn’t once a Targaryen egg? 

She lifts an egg out of the chest. It is heavy, taking both hands for her to hold it up. She runs her fingers over the scales around it’s outside, fascinated. 

“They’re _mine_ ,” Viserys snarls, and lunges for the one in her hands. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> burn in Hell viserys targaryen
> 
> leave a kudos if you agree with the above statement... comment to make my day


	5. Renly Baratheon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be soft renly/loras for a break from the angst but instead the plot got in the way...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is what happened when i attempted to write fluff...

The morning comes upon King’s Landing dreary and gray, bringing with it a promise of rain. 

Renly Baratheon sleeps in five minutes late, and when he finally wakes up, he stays in bed a few more drowsy moments before checking his clock and throwing away the duvet.

Noises from the kitchen indicate that Loras is cooking breakfast, and Renly takes a moment to appreciate his practicality as he hastily pulls on some trousers taken from the drawers that Loras organised. He walks into the kitchen, and wraps his arms around Loras, pressing his mouth into Loras’s neck, which is riddled with marks from last night. 

Loras gives him a small smile. “Morning. You’re not having the eggs yet,” he says as he stirs them around in a frying pan. 

“Disappointing,” Renly murmurs into his neck, taking one arm away from Loras to pluck a piece of scrambled egg from the pan, “but not entirely unexpected.” 

“Scoundrel,” Loras says, batting his hand away. Renly simply shoots him a grin as he walks to the apartment door to check the post. A letter from Robert, his brother, is there, and Renly frowns at it as he slides a finger under the flap to open it. He shifts the letter out, and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth as he begins to read it. 

The letter is brash, straight to the point, just like Robert himself. 

_Renly,_

_Jon Arryn is dead. Renly, I need you to come and help me out in King’s Landing. The pay will be far better than whatever job you have at the moment, I promise you, and it’ll be a once in a lifetime opportunity. Or at least, I’ll make it worth your while._

_Bring your boy, too, if you want. Everyone knows you have one, and I for one want to meet him. The look on Cersei’s face will be stupendous._

_The funeral is in two weeks. Saturday the fifth. Arrive a week earlier since I need to talk to you about business._

_Robert Baratheon_

Renly shakes his head slowly, surprised. Jon Arryn’s death is unexpected, certainly, and Robert’s seeming eagerness to welcome him into the King’s Landing council office is a marked change of tack. 

“Renly! Eggs are _actually_ ready!” Loras calls from the kitchen, and Renly takes the letter with him. 

Loras is settling the plates onto the table, and he lets out a brief murmur of protest when Renly sits down— _no, Renly, you can’t eat scrambled eggs shirtless!_ —and pokes his fork into a piece of egg. Renly hands over the letter, saying through a mouthful of egg “Read it, and tell me what you make of it.” 

Loras reads the letter as Renly eats his eggs, and when Renly has just several bites left, he looks up and says “It’s strange, at least from what I can tell.” 

“No shit.” Renly agrees. 

“It seems a bit... weird. First off, I didn’t think Jon Arryn would die of _natural causes_ —given his age, at least, and correct me if I’m wrong, he was pretty healthy, right? And the job offer has a pretty short period of time.”

“Exactly,” Renly says. “There’s something off about this whole situation.” He frowns. “What do you think I should do?” 

Loras hums. “Definitely don’t miss the funeral, but beyond that... I don’t know. Maybe consider going a week early to ask Robert about the job offer? That is, if you can spare the week off work.” 

“Do you want to come with?” Renly asks, leaning his cheek into his hand lazily. 

Loras shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

Renly leans over to point at the second passage on the paper with a grin. “You’re coming. Robert’s not the only one who wants to annoy Cersei through my being gay.” 

Loras smiles. “I’m always up for that.” 

Renly finishes his eggs and slides his plate into place in the dishwasher. “We’ll leave next week. Sounds good?” 

“Yeah,” Loras says, and Renly drops a kiss to the top of his head. 

“I’m going to leave for work in a few minutes. Love you.” 

Loras twists to press a kiss to his cheek. “Love you too.”

Renly goes back to their shared bedroom to slide on a fresh shirt, kicking the mess of last night’s discarded clothing aside as he buttons it up, thinking more of Robert’s letter than of the motions of his fingers. Robert has never been one for specifics, choosing instead to go straight to the point, clear and in the main emotionless. Renly, however, has learned to read in between the lines to discern Robert’s true feelings on matters, and Robert had sounded almost desperate from the tone of the letter. Renly frowns as he pulls on socks and shoes. By rights, Robert should have nothing to be desperate about: Jon Arryn’s passing is a loss, certainly, but Robert will doubtless find someone to fill his place, and Robert is in no danger of being voted out of his job soon (from what Renly can tell, at least.) Yet he’d still sounded desperate for Renly to take the job. 

Renly slips on his suit jacket, sliding his phone into an inner pocket, and picks up his briefcase from the entryway. He calls a goodbye to Loras before closing the door to their apartment and taking the elevator down to the ground floor. 

When he exits the apartment, emerging into the busy crowd of one of Storm’s End’s main streets, Renly immediately draws out his umbrella and opens it: there is a light mist of rain in the air, holding the promise of a darker downpour later in the day. 

He has walked the way to Storm’s End courthouse so many times that the journey seems to pass in a matter of moments, and soon enough he is walking towards its familiar grey shape. There are protesters outside the courthouse again, Renly notes, although these ones seem calmer than the last lot. None of them try to jump him as he walks towards the courthouse entrance, as another group had done to one of Renly’s colleagues a few weeks ago, for one. 

The words written on their signs and the words that they chant are familiar, though, even though their ‘Rhaegar is Innocent!’-s seem a little less enthused than normal. 

Renly can’t hold off the derisive curl of his lip as he passes by them. If he was prosecuting in the case, Rhaegar Targaryen would already have been handed a Guilty verdict without much fuss. It’s Jon Connington’s fault that this case has become so controversial, for being so soft on Rhaegar during his prosecution. 

Renly vaguely associates with Jon Connington due to their common experience of being openly gay, but other than that, they have few other similarities. 

He walks in through the courthouse’s revolving door, and swipes his ID card to enter his office on the ground floor. Brienne, the ground floor’s current part-time PA, has supplied a cup of coffee from the machine down the corridor, and left him a note atop a pile of new files for cases. He grimaces automatically at the heart drawn at the end—Brienne, since she started, has been quite obviously infatuated with him, oblivious to Renly’s sexuality. Taking a sip of coffee, he opens up the first file, and immediately scrambles to clap a hand over his mouth to prevent his coffee flying out. 

Written in bold letters on the covering piece of paper is **Trial of Tyrion Lannister for the Murder of Jon Arryn**. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve never lived in an apartment or been in a court in my life so please excuse any inaccuracies


	6. Asha Greyjoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asha is the BEST greyjoy and no i do not take criticism on this 
> 
> also she’s a lesbian in this fic bc fuck what grrm says
> 
> current age: 24, going off her birth date being 275 AC in current canon

It is the early morning, but Asha’s wetsuit is already soaked to her skin, and the familiar chill of the ocean has seeped into her bones. The winds rolling off the sea whip her sodden hair into her face, plastering black strands to her cheek. Despite the otherwise dismal scene, though, Asha is smiling. 

She pushes _Black_ _Wind_ away from the sands of the beach and into the shallow waters, the skiff’s hull barely avoiding grazing the rocks that line the sea floor. As she flings herself onto the stern of the boat, it rocks further forward, propelling her into the deeper waters. 

From the shore, Qarl the Maid yells something, but it gets lost in the spray of salt water as Asha shifts her weight to turn the skiff starboard. It swings around, the hull now pointing further out to the sea, but crucially, the wind is fully behind her now, and her face twists into a grimly satisfied smile. 

Asha cannot pinpoint what exactly it is about sailing that feeds the great yearning within her, a primal yearning to be near the ocean, but something about her soul is deeply content when she is out on the sea, when her world is reduced to the sweep of the wind over the waves and the spray of salt in her eyes. 

She is distracted by tying a knot to pull the sail taut that she doesn’t notice when a separate skiff brings itself so close that the hulls of their boats bump together. Asha scowls and looks up, pissed at the possible damage. 

“Not funny, Rodrik,” she groans. Her uncle’s larger, taller skiff could have easily overturned _Black Wind_ , something Asha is ever so aware of and dislikes. 

Rodrik laughs as he turns his boat to circle back around to Asha. “How else was I to say hello?” 

“What are you doing out here this early, anyway?” Asha frowns. “I didn’t think others would be sailing at this time.” 

Rodrik frowns. “It’s something queer,” he says, clearly not focusing all his attention on his skiff. 

“The queerest thing here is me. Get on with it, man,” Asha snaps, sounding far more pissed than she actually is. 

“We—the Greyjoys, and I too—have been invited to the funeral of Jon Arryn.” 

“Jon Arryn?” The name stirs a vague sense of recognition, but Asha can’t place it. “Who the bloody hell is that?” 

Rodrik’s skiff bumps up against Asha’s port side, and she suppresses a grimace. She’ll surely have a scratch by the end of this, which Asha will have to paint up. Not that she minds the extra work—anything to avoid the assholes that hang around her, constantly asking for sex. 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Rodrik shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

Asha sucks her bottom lip into her mouth. “We going, then?” 

Rodrik shrugs, again. “You’ll have to ask your father.” 

Asha’s lip immediately twists at the mention of her father, then she feels guilty for it. It’s not like he’s been terribly bad to her... not like he’d been to Theon, when he was still Ironborn. 

Although Rodrik probably notices, he mercifully doesn’t comment, and simply asks “Will you be coming back inland to ask Balon?” 

Asha’s rational mind immediately chooses to go inland, but then she dips her fingers into the familiar chill of seawater and feels that longing once again. 

“Need to try out some new things on _Black Wind_ ,” she says. “You go ahead.” 

“You’ll be fine, out here on your own?” Rodrik asks, and Asha feels a flare of annoyance.

“Have you forgotten, uncle? I am Ironborn. I need no company.” She unfurls the sail with a sharp snap. 

“As you say,” Rodrik says, then swings the bow of his skiff around to point to the shore. A light gust picks up his sail and carries the skiff along with it, the large boat leaping deceptively quickly through the waves. Asha snorts, knowing that _Black Wind_ is easily twice as fast as Rodrik’s skiff. 

She turns herself once more until the strongest wind fills her sails and propels her forwards. Asha leans off the side of the boat to skim fingers through the water, checking the current. It runs through her fingers, straight out to the wider ocean. 

Asha lets it carry _Black Wind_ further out into the waters, reveling in the speed that it reaches, until she sees the greater sea ahead of her, filling the entire horizon. She takes a deep breath to prepare, then shifts her weight from port to starboard to wheel the skiff around, the bow lifting out of the water as it spins. 

Asha’s grin is grimly satisfied as _Black Wind_ ’s sails capture the lighter breeze going inland and she is pushed back into the bay. From her vantage point on the stern of the skiff, she can just pick out the shape of Qarl the Maid waiting at the shore. She sighs inwardly—while Qarl is decent enough in comparison to some of her other suitors, she wishes they would just accept that she will never go out with any of them. 

Soon enough, the speed of her skiff brings her into shallow waters once more, and she jumps off with a splash to haul _Black Wind_ inland and onto the beach, alongside the other Ironborn skiffs. Qarl immediately flings himself towards her, all over her with questions about Rodrik and her’s conversation, telling her that he’ll take care of Black Wind—

Asha is so incredibly fed up. She pushes Qarl’s roaming hands away. “I can take care of her myself just fine, thanks,” she snaps. 

Qarl backs off, immediately mumbling about no offense meant, and Asha finds herself feeling the imaginary gaze of her mother, Alannys, chastening her for being rude to a man. No matter how much Asha tries to convince herself that she is free of her mother’s judgement, she thinks that she will always have that little voice in her head, telling her to be ladylike, be nice, be kind. 

Asha is so incredibly done with being kind. She pulls a tarp across the deck to prevent the boat’s interior becoming waterlogged if it rains, tying it down on either side, and furls the sail, twisting it into the mast. 

Skiff taken care of, she trudges up the beach, already beginning to unzip her wetsuit as she walks to the hut upon the sand where she keeps her dry clothing. 

Qarl thankfully doesn’t follow her inside as she shuts the door and strips off her sodden wetsuit, letting it fall to the sandy floor. Wiping her body with a towel to dry herself, she pulls on leggings, preferring them to the heavier, easier-to-waterlog jeans favoured by other Ironborn, and tugs a bra and shirt over her head. Sitting down on the bench tacked to the side of the hut, she laces up her favoured studded combat boots, then grabs a bomber jacket which she pulls on. Stuffing her wetsuit into a plastic bag in the corner, she zips up her jacket and steps out onto the beach. 

Barely ten minutes have passed, by Asha’s estimate, and already the tide is beginning to come in and pool around the noses of the skiffs. The wind buffeting Asha uphill is also stronger than it was when she had been out on the sea. 

Turning her back to the wind, Asha puts her boots into the sand and ascends the hill to find Qarl waiting for her atop it, where the grass begins to grow through the sand. 

Throwing a last look back at the sea, she begins to trudge through the sand to meet her father. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact the ironborn are kind of inspired by these people in my neighbourhood who have been partying pretty much EVERY day of the quarantine 
> 
> as usual feel free to kudos/comment to make my entire day!
> 
> (also i’ve been thinking about making a tumblr for general shenanigans, any thoughts?)


	7. Catelyn Tully Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catelyn and Ned have a disagreement, of sorts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this scene takes place at about the same time that theon and robb are arguing

Catelyn is satisfied and warm from the afterglow and the heat circulating into the room, and when Ned goes to open the window, she feels a shiver pass through her. Instead of complaining, she pulls the duvet up to her chin, and rubs her arms to banish the goosebumps.

Ned stands at the window, naked as the day he was born, and stares out into the dark night around him. The sky is a deep blue-black, like black watercolor paint has spread out over it, and a heavy silence has settled over the city.

In their younger days, Catelyn would ask Ned to come away from the window and occupy her instead, but they are both ageing, and she understands that Ned doesn’t just look out the window because he wants to—he does it because he has to, when stress has lined his forehead so much that he looks years older than thirty-seven, when the burden of his life weighs heavy upon him. She doesn’t know exactly why he does it, but she knows that it’s necessary for him, and that’s enough.

Ned turns to her, a frown marring his lips and forehead. “I hear arguing,” he says. “Out round the back.”

“Who is it?” Catelyn asks, concern for her children flashing through her head. Immediately she finds herself imagining all sorts of situations they could be in—being robbed, kidnapped, or murdered—

“Theon,” Ned murmurs, breath misting out of the opened window. “And—yes, that’s Robb’s voice.”

“What are they talking about?” Catelyn would have thrown aside her bedcovers if she had been younger, but the familiar warmth of them is too pleasant to give up. Ned can keep his penchant for the cold: even though Catelyn’s name is officially Stark, she is still a Tully, and the Tullys enjoy warmth more than the polar-cold air of the North.

“That bloody funeral,” Ned sighs, after a few more moments. “I tell you, Cat, it’ll be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Robert wants you there,” Catelyn points out. “You’d be a fool not to go.”

“I think he wants me there for something else, as well,” Ned pushes his hands through thin, graying hair. “I don’t want to go anywhere near the south, though. It’s a nasty place.”

Catelyn, who remembers fondly her childhood in southron Riverrun, is about to protest, but Ned lets out another heavy sigh and she realises it’s not Riverrun he takes issue with.

“You don’t want to be in King’s Landing, do you,” she says, softly. “I know, it’s not ideal for any of us, but we have to.”

“I don’t want my children anywhere near the Lannisters,” Ned says, frustration evident upon his face. “There’s something about that family that I absolutely detest.”

“Cersei is married to Robert, Ned,” Catelyn says, sighing internally as she does so. “They’re not that bad, surely.”

Ned makes a fist and thumps it on the windowsill without much enthusiasm. “I know, their public record is _immaculate_. But there’s something fishy—no offence, Cat—in private, I’m sure.”

“You _know_ they’d never let anyone pry,” Catelyn says, thinking back to Cersei’s interview in Westeros Weekly a few months ago. “And they’ve never been particularly forthcoming.”

“Oh, you’re talking about _that_ Westeros Weekly interview. Ugh, I hated that one. The amount of lies she put out about Robert—”

Catelyn sees Ned’s eyes cloud over and she is sure that he’s remembering the last time he saw Robert, ten years ago, when their parties had made a coalition to take down Balon Greyjoy’s and when Theon started living with them. She knows she has to snap him out of it, otherwise she doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle Robert’s current state. “He isn’t the man you knew ten years ago,” she says, ignoring Ned’s dark stare, “word says that he doesn’t even bother governing, left it to Jon Arryn, mostly.”

“Those are just word of mouth, Cat,” Ned’s brow furrows. “The Robert I knew would never have shirked his responsibilities.”

Catelyn is sick and tired of this. “You knew him as something different than what he is now. Please, listen to me, Ned. He’s not who he used to be.”

“Why should I bother with seeing him, then, if he’s supposedly so different?”

“Robert governs the entirety of Westeros, Ned. Please remember that. He could punish the North—and Winterfell—politically. Sanctions, trade blocks.”

“He’d never do that to me.” The shape of Ned’s spine stands out on his back as he turns away from her.

“I think you underestimate the amount of offence he could take.” Catelyn simply says. She is done with this argument—Ned should know not to disregard Robert, yet he stubbornly insists that he will be unscathed should he choose not to go.

“He loves me,” Ned says, and he leans out of the window, away from Catelyn, his eyes searching the yard below and sweeping out across Winterfell. Catelyn turns away from him and wraps herself in the covers.

Neither of them know that across town, a box is being delivered to the house of Luwin Altermont at that very moment, and that the next day, Luwin will find it, and open it. Neither of them know that the box’s false bottom will slide away to reveal a message that only Catelyn can decipher. Neither of them know that the contents of the letter are enough to damn them both to seven hells.

Neither of them know, so instead, they turn away from each other, and that night, will sleep with their backs to each other. It will be the only good night of sleep they will have in a long while, and they will regret spending it apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates might be more sporadic since i’m currently under quite a bit of stress from schoolwork but hang in there!


	8. Nymeria Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not the first one of Doran’s bad decisions, but it is likely to be the last one he makes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, you there! reading this fic! please open up another tab and go to this video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NokTSpMH44A)! you can have it on in the background as you read, and mute it too—but please watch it & don’t skip any ads! the revenue generated from the ads goes towards the Black Lives Matter movement, and it is DEFINITELY worth your time. there is another, longer link in the end notes. please DO watch it and don’t skip the ads! 
> 
> i will be trying to use my fic as a way to spread the word about this as it’s the only platform i have, so if you dislike the idea of Black Lives Matter—kindly don’t read my fic!
> 
> also: the martells are black, and the tyrells are POC because i say so
> 
> and this is your daily reminder that nymeria sand CANONICALLY SLEEPS WITH WOMEN. reread a feast for crows if you don’t believe me.

Nymeria pushes her fingers through Jeyne Fowler’s hair, which is soft from her attentions that night, and Jeyne smiles softly back. Jeyne’s eyes are kind, but tired, and Nymeria is unsurprised when she starts to drift off in her arms.

The night is ablaze with heat, though, and Nymeria Sand lives for the fire. Her skin is heated from the lovemaking with Jeyne, and sweat dampens her dark skin. She shifts Jeyne’s arm from where it is tossed over hers, pinning it down, and reaches for her phone out of instinct. Several messages appear on her home screen as she switches it on, and Nymeria scrolls through them, lip twisted. Mostly, they are from people she barely knows, asking about whether she can do this or that for them. Nymeria bypasses then without a second thought, choosing instead to go through those from her sisters. Sarella is still silent, and Nymeria frowns, making a mental note to check how she is faring. The Free Cities aren’t known to be particularly welcoming to outsiders, even if Sarella has ties with some of their factions, and she has always rushed into danger too easily. Obara has sent about five hundred messages since Nymeria left with Jeyne, all variations of _what are you doing_ , and she disregards them for what they are: mindless bluster, something Obara has far too much of a preference for. From Tyene, there is only a message wishing for her to have a good time. 

Nymeria looks at Jeyne, hair mussed up and neck warmed by hickeys, yet sleeping peacefully in her arms, and thinks _Yes, yes, I had a good time_. 

Nymeria notices a new email from Oberyn, snorting gently at how he’s such an old man with emails instead of texts. The contents are easily memorised—years in the less wholesome side of the family business have meant that Nymeria’s memory has had to sharpen and perfect, until it only takes one scan of something for it to be committed to memory. 

Nymeria curses him briefly for giving her another all-day job, taking time away from her and Jeyne, but her anger towards him never lasts. 

Her anger towards Doran, though, is another matter. Of course, she has to keep up the illusion of politness around him, but internally it is a completely different matter. 

She knows Arianne feels the same. The two of them have more in common than many think, and they have become close friends. Close enough for Arianne to spill out her deepest, darkest fantasies. Close enough for Nymeria to have shared the Fowler sisters with her. Close enough that Arianne feels comfortable disclosing her true thoughts of her father. 

Oberyn promises that one day, they’ll do what they should have done years ago, and with Ellaria urging him on, Nymeria expects the reckoning to approach soon. 

Jeyne stirs, hair tickling Nymeria’s face, and mumbles something indistict.

“I know, sweetling,” Nymeria replies, murmuring into her brown hair. “I know.” 

Jeyne seems soothed, pressing her head further into Nym’s chest. Nymeria looks down at her, skin still damp with sweat, hair tangled and stuck to her skin, and once more she promises herself that she will fight to make sure that Jeyne and her sister, that the Sand Snakes, that Arianne, that all women get what they deserve. 

And it is _starting_ , Nymeria can tell. It is starting in a warm bedroom, with two women sprawled across the bed. It is starting in an apartment, with a woman holding rightful rage inside her heart. It is starting with Obara, with Tyene, who are even now awake and ready. And it is starting with Sarella’s journey into the Free Cities, and the girl she will seek out and raise up to her rightful place. 

_Oh, darling_ , Nymeria thinks, _they will never hurt you any more_. 

Nymeria gently shifts herself out from under Jeyne, and kisses her warm brow before she goes to the pile of discarded clothes, shuffling through them until she finds her bag amongst them. 

Her burner phone is stuffed in there, along with her most prized pistol, named Soar. After Jeyne Fowler and Jennelyn Fowler, of course. 

Nymeria always has bullets on her, somewhere. Hidden in a nearly-invisible pocket of her jacket, there are six bullets, with _Fowler_ etched into each of them. 

Never let it be said that Nymeria Sand is nothing if not caring.

She loads the gun in near-silence, Jeyne’s breathing the loudest thing in the room. Six chambers for six bullets. Click, click, click. 

Nymeria stashes the gun back in her bag, then messes up the pile of clothes again, so it looks inconspicuous.

She finds herself asking why she doesn’t tell Jeyne and Jennelyn about what she does, something she’s thought about many times. Her mind turns it over, and then supplies the answer she knew it would: that she’s scared. That she is scared of dying without seeing them one last time. That she is afraid that they will leave her if they find out. 

Nymeria Sand, for all her faults, cannot bear to be left alone. 

Her lips thin as she returns to the bed, only to see another email notification appearing on her phone. Sighing, she duly unlocks it, and opens the email. 

Oberyn, again, except the content is different. Supplied is a transcript of his conversation with an A. Martell, and Nymeria hisses as she reads it and realises. 

Doran has gone too fucking far this time. 

Nymeria knows immediately that she has to stop him. She can’t let Arianne be used by him in this way. 

Her response is quick and sent in a matter of moments. 

_He’s mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, even though I don’t get that many hits, I’m still going to use my platform as a writer to promote this longer one as well (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCgLa25fDHM). Please give up a bit of your time to watch it and raise money for organisations involved in the Black Lives Matter movement, and spread the word about it however you can.


	9. Irri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irri cannot do anything but sit by as Daenerys suffers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rises from the dead to drop this* 
> 
> //TW abuse for Drogo, Viserys and Qotho

The girl named Daenerys is small and pale, shivering in her dress. Irri feels pangs of sympathy for her as she sees the bruises on her arms. 

Irri’s own arms are marked up under her leather jacket, purpled by thick fingers, but she doesn’t let anyone see. They are her badges of shame, and she wears them quietly. 

Daenerys, though: her white skin seems dotted by blossoming purple paint, all down her arms. Irri has never met anyone who flaunts their bruises to the outside world. 

It is also the first time Irri meets somebody that she truly cares about. Jhiqui had been her friend, once, but Irri had not been able to forgive her after she snapped at her, on the way to keep Qotho company, “ _brichta esh au’ver, chlichte_.”

Brought it upon yourself, bitch. 

Daenerys looks fearful as Irri leads her back into the room that they will all share. Irri knows that look. It was on her own face, once. 

She tries to talk to Daenerys once she shows her to the bed, Dothraki words that would give comfort and care and joy in difficult times, but Daenerys does not understand. 

Irri settles upon sitting with her, so close and yet so far. She can feel Daenerys closing off to her, yet does not know what she can do to fix it.

Jhiqui enters, a sneer affixed on her face. She spits a “ _quierra”_ at Irri and Daenerys, and Irri pretends that it doesn’t affect her.

Once Jhiqui is gone, though, and nobody can see her, Irri starts to break down. Like a solvent dropped into solution, the joins holding her together break, one by one.

Dothraki only has one word for something like this. It means defeat.

Irri cannot let herself be defeated by those who would wish her to be. 

Daenerys looks up. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears, and when she sees Irri’s walls also crumbling slowly down, she cries out in a language that Irri does not know. But Irri recognises the sound of pain. 

She lets Irri put an arm around her. Daenerys is cold under her dress, pinpricks rising on her skin. Irri would like nothing more than to rub the pinpricks away, make it all okay again. 

She is but a slave, though, the words conditioned into her from a succession of male owners. The scars on her back tell their own story. And Irri does not have the power or agency to do such a thing.

Daenerys and her—they are both alone. Deeply, terribly alone. 

The chest with the dragon eggs is being dragged into the room by Drogo and his blood riders. At the sound of their grunts, Irri pulls away in abject fear and darts to sit upon her own bed, as far away from Daenerys as she can get in the small room. 

It is simultaneously too far and not far enough.

The khal enters the room, and a smile grows under his moustache as he appraises his bride. Irri dislikes the hungry look in his eyes, the way he sees her as a lamb ready for slaughter, and if she were a wilder woman—a better Dothraki, perhaps—she might dare to run out in front of him. She might dare to come between him and try to stop him getting to her. She might dare to defend them.

Qotho’s eyes flick over her, appreciative for only a moment before reverting back to their dark hatred. Irri cowers even after his gaze moves to the new khaleesi, memories of his hands gripping her wrists, shoulders, back, waist, thighs too tightly, hard enough to bruise, pulling her down, into that dark place that is so hard to come out of.

The khal sets down the chest and strokes his khaleesi’s cheek. It might have been an entirely platonic gesture, if Drogo’s eyes were not so full of lust and black things. If his arms were not the muscles of a stallion rearing, readying to take a mare.

Irri knows what shall happen next, and yet she fears for Daenerys. Despite the girl being an outcast, one who does not know the Dothraki ways, she has seen in her the spirit of another troubled animal. 

Drogo’s hands move to undo Daenerys’s dress, steady and purposeful. Irri cannot look away, even as she is hauled to her feet by one of the blood riders— _not Qotho, Qotho’s grip would be harder, bruising_ —and escorted out of the room holding the khal and his khaleesi.

Irri managed to get one last glance back. Drogo’s braid had chimed loudly as Daenerys’s eyes had widened, sweet purple giving way to fearful lilac. 

She wishes that she could protect Daenerys, but she is only a slave. What could a slave do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter updates will be a bit less consistent due to school but i’ll still try and give you at least two a week!
> 
> also: black lives matter, and especially black lgbtq+ lives!


	10. Myrcella Baratheon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella’s family is falling apart around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello this fic is still getting updated although at a slower pace since i have so many other multichap WIPs (show some love to them if you want!)
> 
> anyway it’s the tenth chapter and we probably have at least ninety more chapters to go. i think i need a drink
> 
> //tw for child neglect (it’s never explicitly said but i think it’s pretty clear), mentions of alcoholism and underage drinking. yeah... the baratheons are not a healthy family

Myrcella is used to being ignored by her family.

It comes with being the only girl in a house full of men (Cersei is half a man herself, although none would never outwardly admit it), and Myrcella used to be perfectly happy with the situation. She would sit and play with her dolls like she had been told, and eventually they would take notice of her long enough to give some tokenistic form of parental affection. 

Myrcella isn’t satisfied with being left alone with dolls any longer, though. She tosses them to one side in irritation, their hair messy from a long time spent in the box. 

Shouting comes from downstairs, between Robert and Cersei, as it always is. Myrcella presses her ear to the floor, terrified and exhilarated at the same time. She knows that it’s not for her ears, and that she could get caught at any moment—but its forbidden nature is part of its draw. 

The name ‘Jon Arryn’ is tossed around a lot. Myrcella knows who he is ( _was_ , she reminds herself), knows that he died. She knows that he was responsible for setting up her parents: she knows that Robert was always happier when Jon was over than when Myrcella’s Uncle Jaime had dinner with them. 

She notices many things in her household that seem odd, but nobody asks her, and so she keeps her knowledge close to her chest. For instance, she sees that Cersei is always happier when Jaime comes over and Robert is gone, or that Robert always drowns his sorrows in alcohol after coming home late from work. Once, when he’d been inebriated beyond comprehension, he had offered Myrcella a sip. She’d taken it unknowingly, but the taste had haunted her for months afterwards—the sweetness, the way it fizzled on her tongue. However, she had witnessed what dependency on alcohol did to her mother and father, and she had been haunted by the prospect that she would become exactly like them if she indulged in any more of it. 

There is a soft knock at her door, and Myrcella calls, “Come in!” She knows who it is, as each member of her family has their own way of entering. Robert rarely if ever enters; Cersei will rap several times, hard and fast, if she is angry, and call sweetly if she is in a good mood, which commonly correlated with overindulgence in wine; Joffrey won’t knock, instead he will barge in, look around with a disgusted sneer, and either pull Myrcella’s hair or decide that it is not worth his time. Tommen, meanwhile, is the only one who displays any sense of shyness when asking to come into her room, and she loves him best for it. 

His three soft-toy cats are clutched in his arms, and he holds onto them like a drowning man to a lifeline. Myrcella’s smile as he comes in is one of the few genuine ones that she gives out. 

“Cellie, Joff is being mean. I want to stay in your room till he stops being mean,” he mumbles, eyes downcast.

Myrcella gets up and goes to hug him. “Of course you can stay.” She doesn’t say what else she privately thinks, that Joffrey will never stop being mean, but she thinks of it nonetheless. 

Her dolls are pushed to one side and she moves some coloring books (involving princesses, as all of them that she gets tend to do) to make space for Tommen to sit down. 

“What have the cats been getting up to this week?” she asks, trying to coax Tommen to open up to her. Myrcella knows all too well how their family can cause those in it to close themselves off, and she tries her hardest to stop it happening to Tommen.

He cheers up once she asks about the cats, and his smile brings a second smile to Myrcella’s face. “Ser Pounce has been rescuing Lady Whiskers from the evil Boots,” he declares, “and he’s fallen in love with her after he rescued her.”

Myrcella ruffles the top of his head. “A very dastardly villain, I presume,” she observes. “How did he do it?”

Tommen puffs up with pride. “Well, he had Lady Whiskers about to take a jump into the Waters of Doom, but then Ser Pounce stopped him and flew her away!”

Myrcella smiles. “And are Ser Pounce and Lady Whiskers going to have a happy ending together, then?”

“Um...” Tommen says, and Myrcella wants to slap herself in the face for saying that. Tommen doesn’t know what a happy ending for a man and a woman is, the many arguments of Cersei and Robert have made sure of it.

They’re still yelling downstairs, even though talking with Tommen had made it abate a little. Myrcella wraps an arm around Tommen out of instinct.

“No, first Ser Pounce has to go on a quest and bring back something for the fair lady, then they can get married!”

She ruffles his hair affectionately. “I’m sure they’ll be very happy together.”

“They wil—”

Joff stares around Myrcella’s room, a sneer across his lips. “Look at you, still playing with toys. Toys are for little children.”

Myrcella would very much like to hit him over the head with one of her dolls, but she has been taught not to, that violence is unladylike. She would also like to raise her voice, but she has been taught that talking with too much voice is unladylike as well. 

Instead, she takes a deep breath and acts the perfect little princess as she says, “Won’t you come play too, Joff? Ser Pounce and Lady Whiskers are going to be married, but first—”

Disgust fills Joffrey’s eyes, and Myrcella smiles gleefully internally. “Toys are for babies, you little freak!” He says, and storms out of their room. “I’m telling Mother!”

Myrcella knows what Joffrey doesn’t: she’ll never listen. After all, she has far bigger problems than her two younger children—or at least that’s what they have always been told. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> joffrey can go do something to himself that requires an e rating and an underage archive warning


	11. Bronn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bronn knows that defending Tyrion Lannister is going to be more trouble than it’s worth.
> 
> He knows.
> 
> And he takes the job anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rises from the ashes of writer’s block to post this chapter*
> 
> thanks to au ideas bot on twitter for solving this chapter for me

The train sways gently as it turns a corner out of the station, and Bronn’s forehead is jostled against the window. He sighs and moves away from the pane of glass to lean back into his seat. If he wasn’t so sure that the woman sitting nearby him would give him a dirty look for it, he’d put his boots up on the table, but she’s good-looking and Bronn likes the arch of her eyebrow as she looks at him. Bodes well if he needs a distraction at any point during this trip.

He’s perfectly prepared for his journey to pass by unremarkably—he bought a newspaper, after all, that he can look through and pretend that he’s actually reading—and has settled into a comfortable enough position with his shoulder slumped against the window. Picking up the newspaper from the seat beside him, he opens it, shuffling the massively unwieldy pages into a mostly uniform shape. His eyes flick over the pictures, mainly, and he tries to decipher some of the titles. No use: the letters swim in front of his eyes, taunting him. Bronn sighs and rubs his forehead in a quietly irritated tic. 

He flicks onto the next page, and inadvertently bites his lip at a picture of a red-haired man with a pierced eyebrow. At a quick snatch of an angry and shouted exchange, however, his eyes leave the photo and look up from behind the paper to see a man staggering out from one of the private booths. Although Bronn can’t remember the guy’s name, he’s pretty sure that he’s heard of him before. Bronn raises his eyebrow at the choicy curses flung through the sliding door before turning his gaze to the man upon the floor. 

The man pushes himself up, and gives an ugly look backwards at the booth he had been unceremoniously shoved out of only a moment ago. His eyes roam the cabin before noticing the empty bench opposite Bronn, and Bronn sees his face light up.

He seems halfway to drunk as he staggers over and lifts himself up onto the seat. Bronn, for his part, folds his newspaper up fastidiously after the man settles on the seat opposite.

“Jilted lover?” Bronn asks, leaning back and folding his hands in his lap. 

The other man makes a face. “No, my bitch of a sister.” Disregarding common sense, which calls for politeness in front of a carriage of total strangers, he spits derisively on the carpeted floor of the centre of the carriage.

Bronn finds himself liking this man’s frankness and casual disregard for manners. Taking his cue from the spitting on the floor, he lifts his hiking boots up onto the table. He’s fully aware of the muck on the bottom of the soles, and smiles grimly at the woman’s gasp. The other man returns a grim smile, a smile that speaks to satisfaction in flaunting their shared disregard of the rules.

“You might wanna get a restraining order on her,” Bronn says as he unwraps gum and sticks it in his mouth. He chews with his lips open, the motions of his jaw and teeth fully exposed to the outside world. Something about this man encourages Bronn’s liking for disregarding the norm. 

The other man chuckles. “Seriously? You can get a restraining order on family members?”

“Sure,” Bronn says, shrugging. “I should know, I’m a lawyer.”

“Wait.” All sense of humour disappears out of his tone. “You’re a lawyer? Would you defend me if I said I had a case which I needed defending in?”

“Depends on the case,” Bronn says, idly blowing and popping a bubble. He doesn’t mention that he likes him and would probably follow him into the depths of hell to hear that laugh. That’s not something that he gives away easily.

“I don’t have the files, admittedly,” he confesses, leaning over the table separating them with hands clasped. “but I have most of the essential details.”

Bronn tries his hardest to pretend that he’s not disappointed that they decided to go straight to business matters so quickly. Instead, he straightens his shoulders slightly and cocks his head to the side. “How long we got?”

One green eye travels down to a flash golden watch. “About three hours until the train reaches King’s Landing. My stop,” he adds by way of explanation. 

Bronn hisses through his teeth. “I’m going off near Riverrun. Looking to find work there.”

“Please,” the man says, and the sheer helplessness that comes through in his tone sends a shiver down Bronn’s spine. “However much money they say that they can pay, I’ll always pay more. I _need_ this.” 

“Offer like that, bit difficult to refuse,” Bronn muses. He sits further up, pushing the gum further back in his cheek. “Tell me ‘bout the case first. Gotta make sure it’s worth my while.”

The grim smile should have been Bronn’s first warning. “I’m being persecuted for murder.” 

Bronn heaves a sigh. “Tell me about it. You have ten minutes to convince me to take it.”

Who is he kidding? Bronn just knows that he’ll take this job, the same way he knows how to pick out a flash bastard in a crowd and the same way he knows which people will be most receptive to his advances. In this instance, it’s not the case that hooks him, pulls him in, leads him to fall into another perfectly prepared trap: no, instead it’s the person. 

Goddammit. Bronn is so utterly fucked. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens


	12. Asha Greyjoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asha’s meeting with her father raises more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at who got one of those rare moments of Inspiration™ for a multichapter fic! couldn’t be me... 
> 
> in case you want a reference for the iron isles for reading, pyke is basically helsinki, finland except less modern, tinier and more crappy, and asha’s ferry journey is effectively the crossing from suomenlinna to helsinki. the seafood market she visits is definitely inspired by the giant finnish market. as you can tell by now... I’ve visited Finland before

Asha’s ferry ticket is scrunched up in her pocket, crumpled and partly sodden from the sudden wash of rain that had fallen upon the Iron Isles heavily. Beads of rainwater roll down her forehead and fall into her eyes, and she rubs them with the back of her hand, which comes away damp. Her skin is a mottled purple from her lack of gloves, and under her windbreaker her arms are pimpled with goosebumps. She leans against the slick railing of the ferry, wet hair pushed over her face by the wind blocking her view of the seas surrounding Pyke.

Growing up more on the sea than on land has given Asha experience in harsher rainstorms than this one, however, and her boots are steady upon the slippery deck. Reaching inside her windbreaker, she pulls out a piece of gum, and pushes it in between her teeth. She chews it as the ferry draws nearer to Pyke, working to soften it with her molars. 

As a rule, Asha tends not to ruminate, instead choosing to rush immediately into situations and make decisions that others would have considered brash, but Ironborn considered par for the course. However, the entire morning—Rodrik Harlaw out on his skiff, for once, and the urgency that Qarl had expressed regarding Balon Greyjoy’s request—is a strange addition to Asha’s week. It doesn’t have to be a bad addition, necessarily, if Asha can work this meeting to her advantage. Merely strange.

Once again, Asha wonders what her father could want. As a rule, Balon Greyjoy tended to leave his only daughter to her own business, and turned a blind eye to her dalliances with women. Personally, she’d always thought that he was disappointed that Asha hadn’t turned out to be so much of a jerk as her two older brothers had been, when they were still alive. 

Asha swirls the gum around in her mouth thoughtfully as she thinks back to her memories of Rodrik and Maron. They’d mocked Theon more often than her, for sure, but when Alannys had squirrelled him away in an attempt to protect him from them, Asha had found herself their target. The constant hair-pulling that she’d had to endure was partially the reason behind her short hair (which is growing long, she frowns as she pushes it out of her face), and the majority of her curses came from their mouths as she fought with them. The Isles had loved them, though: saw them as their new generation, the future captains of the Ironborn fleet (not that it could be called a fleet, really), the ones who would make the Iron Isles a tangible political force among the Seven Countries again. 

Her father had loved them, too, twice as fiercely as any of the other Ironborn, and their deaths had broken him. Asha had seen it firsthand: in the days after the loss of all three of her brothers, two to death and one to the Stark family, he had locked himself in his room and refused to come out.

The image of Balon Greyjoy curled in the foetal position on his bed, in a dark room, the lights turned off and the curtains shut—something Asha had seen when she had peered in through the gap between the door and doorframe—stays with her as she exits the ferry, fishing out a couple of silver coins to pay the man at the port to Pyke. Asha heads along the waterfront, passing the second ferry station and several tourists taking photos, who she rolls her eyes at. Despite it having been several months since she last visited, she is still drawn to the market by the ubiquitous smell of salt and fish guts. 

The Pyke seafood market extends across the majority of the main square, and stalls fill every bit of available space. Asha half-sighs, half-grins at the sight.

She plunges into one avenue of stalls (the market is like a small city all its own) and is immediately assaulted by cries advertising every type of seafood imaginable, and then some. Hearing “Fresh kraken tentacles!” being yelled gives her a good laugh as she pushes through the crowd, aiming for the nearest stall selling mussels.

Asha doesn’t recognise the owner, but the mussels displayed in front of them look fat and delicious, so she breaks away from the mass of people to stand in front of the wicker baskets filled with mussels. Paper labels price them at one golden dragon for ten, and to Asha, that’s a fair offer, so she asks for ten and holds out a small pile of silver and bronze coins.

“Many thanks,” the owner says. “What is dead may never die.”

“What is dead may never die,” Asha agrees as she takes the cardboard box full of mussels. She mentally palms her forehead for going to a Drowned God devotee for seafood—they get enough money as it is, Balon being terribly weak for her uncle Aeron—but the smell and warmth of them through the box convince her not to remain angry. 

Heading for the centre to eat her mussels, Asha passes by several stalls selling Iron Islands memorabilia, and has to resist the urge to snort loudly and obviously. The krakens displayed proudly are big-eyed plush toys with small tentacles and large heads, and the postcards all show sunshine upon the water. Asha holds back a laugh as one of the idyllic port scenes gets rainwater dampening the paper. 

The central area of the market is a driftwood plaza, with chairs and tables. Napkins that are sticking out of their holders flap in the wind as Asha pulls them out and settles onto a stool, the table in front of her overlooking the market and the sea. 

She’s starting to lift the lid of the paper container with the mussels in when she hears footsteps. Instead of dropping the lid down in shock, Asha opens the box all the way before turning to Balon. 

Neither of them say anything: they are more like strangers than father and daughter, with all the time that Asha spends away from Pyke and away from him. Balon is the first to break the silence, his eyes darting to Asha’s box.

“Offshore mussels. I expected better of you,” he says, and while in another place it could have sounded more like the teasing it was supposed to be, as it is Asha merely finds herself annoyed. She raises her eyebrows in lieu of a verbal response. 

Balon takes the seat next to her, and looks out over the harbour. He takes a deep, tense breath and blows the air out, his cheeks hollowing. “Listen, Asha, I—”

“Oh, spit it out,” Asha says, poking a plastic fork into her mussel to pry apart the shell. Patience has never been a virtue that Asha has found much use in.

“Well.” Her father swallows. “The Greyjoy family have been invited to Jon Arryn’s funeral.”

“Tell me more,” Asha finds the meat of the mussel and spears it on the end of the fork. She raises it to her lips. “Mmm.” 

“Jon Arryn is an old friend of Robert Baratheon’s, and I do not want to see him at the funeral.” Balon’s voice is heavily formal and distanced. Asha feels a twinge or regret that they have never been able to simply talk as normal parents and children do. 

“Don’t go, then,” Asha suggests, but she already knows that the suggestion will have no merit. 

“I must go. As a gesture of respect, at the very least.” Irritation swims into his tone, and Asha is once again reminded that Robert was responsible for the loss of three of her brothers.

“So go,” Asha replies. “What is so complicated about that?”

Balon sighs heavily and rubs his forehead with one hand. “Will you agree to hear me out?”

Asha frowns and looks up from her mussels. “Yeah.”

“I am afraid that I will die during the funeral. Or that it shall lead up to my death.”

Asha laughs, loud and rolling. She looks up at Balon’s face, and lifts her brows. “You can’t be serious.”

“He killed my sons, Asha. My _sons_. What would stop him from killing me?”

Balon pushes a piece of paper in front of her. Asha puts down the mussel on her fork and picks it hp to read.

Her lips form the words: last will and testament of Balon Greyjoy, son of Quellon...

Once she has read it, she gazes back up at her father. “You mean it?”

His eyes are sad but kind. “I do.” 

Blinking, Asha takes the proffered pen, and signs her name on the line. He takes the document, still with that sad smile. 

“I’m sorry, Asha,” he says, and turns away, disappearing into the market.

She stabs another morsel of mussel meat and slips it into her mouth. It’s salty and slippery, and honestly not all that pleasant, but eating it seems easy compared with the situation ahead of her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m beginning to think that this fic’s theme song might be ‘why does it always rain on me’ by travis...


	13. Loras Tyrell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s definitely not a holiday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly *some* of the things that people write in this fandom disgust me. have some lorenly to cleanse the first page of results, the soul and my poor eyeballs. oh yeah and then it’s followed by angst.
> 
> //tw for mental issues. it’s pretty heavy so please feel free to skip this chap if it triggers you and go read another lovely piece of writing!! you won’t miss any important plot.

Loras fiddles with the knot of Renly’s tie, pulling it taut around Renly’s neck, and he tugs on it, dragging down the collar.

Renly lifts his eyes to Loras’s and crosses his arms. “Are you done yet?”

“Not quite,” Loras says, and he reaches for the tie again, pulling Renly’s mouth to his. Renly’s huff of laughter is chased by stubble upon Loras’s lips, and he softens into it. As quickly as it began, though, Renly pushes Loras away with a gentle shove at his shoulders. 

“Can’t believe you came along and sacrificed a week of uni just so you could strangle me with my tie and kiss me,” Renly jokes, turning his back to Loras to inspect the folded suit jackets still within the suitcase laid out on the bed.

Loras shrugs noncommittally. “Doesn’t matter. It’s you,” he says, as if Renly will read between the lines and see what Loras really means to say. (He never will, and that’s one of his great flaws: he can’t tell what someone means, only what he wishes to hear.)

“Mm,” Renly says, and holds up a jacket. “The sky blue or the navy, darling?”

“Navy,” Loras automatically responds, and leans back to watch as Renly nods and moves to put on the jacket. From his vantage point, he can see the impression of muscles beneath Renly’s skin, and resists the urge for a cheeky wolf-whistle.

Their casual intimacy as Loras watches Renly is broken when he turns around and his eyes have turned stormy and doubtful. It feels like the ground has been ripped out from under him, and Loras can’t help the sense that, in the end, all he can do will not be enough. He wants to tell Renly not to go ahead with it, wants to drive back to home and safety with the accelerator pressed into the floor—but he knows that he’s being an idiot. Knows that it’s simply his nervousness at the disjointed pieces of what he had been told, and knows that there must be a sane explanation, somewhere.

Instead, he asks “You okay?”

“Mm,” Renly says, thoughtfully, and curls a strand of Loras’s hair around his fingers and pulls. A blush blooms over his cheeks, and Renly smirks.

Loras should grip Renly’s shoulders, shake him until he spills out everything that he keeps hidden behind smirks and hot kisses. He doesn’t, though. 

“I’ll see you later, right, Lor?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his response automatic. “Have fun.” He doesn’t quite meet Renly’s eyes.

Fingertips squeeze Loras’s cheek playfully, and he feels a swift huff of laughter on his face. A smile pulls at the corners of his lips as Renly gives him that smarmy look that moves his hand to rub at the back of his neck out of embarrassment, but ceases as Renly leaves. The door closes with a click behind him, the metal sliding back into place, and Loras is alone in the hotel room.

He looks around, breathes in stale air. He feels lightheaded, skittish, can’t decide what he wants to do. The door handle is a temptation, a Pandora’s box placed there to torment him. It would be so easy to open the door, call after Renly for help—but in the opening, who knew what Loras could have unleashed? He moves towards the handle, but doesn’t dare touch it, and pulls away to turn and stalk over the shittily patterned carpet to go sit on the end of the bed. Working his fingers across the faux-silk blanket placed over the edge of the bed, he wrinkles it slightly, forms creases in the fabric. Loras feels unstable, a bomb running out of time, embers gaining a steady supply of oxygen.

This has happened before: Loras has panicked, lost his sense of self in sheer doubt. When he had been younger and still lived with his family, Margaery would have noticed his skittish mannerisms, and take him to one side to calm him down. Later, Willas had begun to notice, and while he never explicitly stated what he was doing (not like Margaery), Loras had known that he was calming him, all the same. 

Then he’d moved to Storm’s End for university, met Renly, and it had seemed like the issue was beyond him. 

Clearly not, but there was no humour in the situation. Loras slumps down, spreading himself across the bed, and turning the side of his face into the sheets. Moments later, he sits up, marches to the door, determined to open it and damn the consequences to seven hells. His fingers close around the handle, and he is beginning to shift it downwards, the lock starting to push back against his slow movements.

Loras can’t do it. His hand drops, and curls into his hair. Resting his forehead against the veneered wood of the door, he vaguely wonders how long he needs to keep up the pretense for. How long it will be before they can get away from all of this.

Although it is quickly ignored, shoved to the bottom of his mind, Loras thinks dimly that they will never be able to get away from this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 13th chapter and it’s a n g s t y i’m so sorry i thought it would take a break for once!! guess i can’t write fluff 
> 
> *gestures wildly at comments and kudos buttons* would you mind passing me some motivation? or you could just, y’know, scream at me. either is valid


	14. Robb Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stark family set off for the funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these two absolute idiots are going to finally COMMUNICATE

The train hurtles through the countryside, and Robb leans back in his seat, resisting the urge to retch. Staring down at the prepackaged supermarket meal, he picks at the corner of the plastic, attempting to peel it away and open it.

Contrary to the general consensus of the Stark family, Robb is not always travelsick: he manages some long journeys fine. His eyes flick up from the food and meet Theon’s, and inadvertently Robb scowls. He doubts he’ll manage this one, not with Theon sitting opposite him. 

So far, it has been mostly quiet in their booth, with Theon playing some game on his phone that lit up his face in rainbow colors and Robb trying to ignore him by acting very interested in the Northern countryside. Occasionally, the occasional sound of victory or disappointment leaves Theon’s mouth, but other than that, broaching conversation seems mostly impossible. 

Tearing off part of the plastic, Robb sighs under his breath when he sees that only the edge has come off and he has not managed to open the packaging. Theon’s snort is derisive before he goes back to playing his game. 

“Fucking open it yourself if you’re so good at it, then,” Robb snaps, pushing the box across the table. Smugly, Theon shoves his phone into his jeans pocket agonisingly slowly, and his long fingers come to rest on the edges of the plastic wrapper. 

The salad beneath is limp and looks unappetising, the leaves of the lettuce blackened around the edges. As Theon’s nails pick at the corners, he replies, “The fuck are they making you eat. This looks fucking disgusting.” 

“You don’t say.” Robb wishes dearly for his phone to distract him from Theon’s attempts at conversation, but his parents have taken his and Sansa’s phones, Ned having made an entire speech about how smartphones teach kids to be irresponsible, so that option is off the table. He reaches down for the backpack that Catelyn insisted they bring and lifts it up onto his lap, pulling the zippers open and rifling through the contents. 

“I watched her pack that. It’s just kid shit,” Theon says, already pulling back the plastic. Robb holds up a set of cards in a wrinkled and battered cardboard box and groans internally. 

Not wanting to admit to Theon that he’s right, Robb returns the cards to the backpack and roots around in it to find something else. His hand emerges gripping a bag of gummy sweets, the colorful branding and promise of sickly sweetness obnoxious to Robb. Motioning to drop it back in, he pauses when Theon holds a hand out and raises an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Robb sighs, and passes it to Theon, who immediately abandons the attempt at opening the salad container to rip the packet of sweets open. While Theon drops gummy after gummy into his mouth, knocking back his head overdramatically, Robb unrolls the napkin and takes out the metal fork, peeling away the remainder of the plastic covering and stabbing it into a piece of lettuce. 

Midway through the gummies, Theon drops his head back down and points at Robb’s backpack. Still with a sweet in his mouth, he says, “Mmph,” with a pause to swallow before asking, “You have any more food in there you don’t want?”

Robb frowns up at him. “You don’t have your own food?”

A shrug is Theon’s only answer. “Wasted all my money, probably,” he says as way of explanation.

The temptation to lecture Theon on being more careful with the money that the Starks give him is nearly unbearable, but damn him to seven hells if Robb hasn’t always had the biggest soft spot for Theon. He pulls out a storage container with pasta and tomato sauce in it, although the sauce seems to be more liquid than actual flavour content. 

“I don’t have anything else,” Robb says, uncertainly, “but we could share this.”

Theon nods, seeming to accept the peace gesture. “Pass me one of the spare forks in there, will you?” he asks, and Robb does.

Funny that the journey seems to go so much faster with better company. The quiet is more companionable than before as they both eat, Theon occasionally cracking a joke about how terrible the tomato sauce is, and Robb smiling genially at it. It seems that the pasta is depleted too quickly, and soon only one tube of penne is left. 

“Yours,” Theon says, and Robb immediately begins to reply with something about _oh no, you don’t have any food, you need it_ before Theon picks it up on his fork and holds it out to him. 

Robb had held out the olive branch, and now Theon is returning it. He opens his mouth and eats the last piece of pasta.

“Yeah,” Theon says, under his breath (but Robb can still hear.) 

Staring out of the train window, Robb rubs his eyes to push fatigue from them. The Northern landscape is a blur of blue sky and bluish-tinged fields and hills, and all in all, not a particularly interesting view. Tiredness falls upon him like the first snows at Winterfell. 

“‘M gonna go to sleep,” Robb mutters. Theon gets out of his seat, ignoring the slide of the train as it takes a bend, and slides onto the seat next to Robb, shifting him so that Robb’s head is on his shoulder. 

“I’ll wake you up when we get there,” Theon promises, and Robb murmurs assent into the shoulder of Theon’s jacket. 

The rest of the ride passes in a comfortable silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuuuuhh boy shit is gonna hit the fan next chapter
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](https://lesbiangrimalkin.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> i mean... i don’t think theon’s life with the starks was ever completely happy sailing, and i wanted to try and portray that.
> 
> if you read please leave a kudos and if you have an opinion or constructive criticism please leave a comment!
> 
> (I am not kidding when I say they are my lifeblood and convince me to write faster!)


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